Letters Between Dead Men
by Thorn17
Summary: Set after The Reichenbach Fall. John believes Sherlock to be dead. John feels dead inside, struggling to come to terms with the loss of his best friend. On the advice of his therapist, he writes letters to tell Sherlock how he feels, even though the detective will never hear what he has to say. Rated M to be safe because of the level of angst and John's depression.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: I know that there are many stories out there exploring how John and Sherlock feel after The Reichenbach Fall, and this is what I personally came up with after trying to imagine myself in their situation.**

Sherlock,

My therapist told me that I should continue with my blog to help me adjust. I don't want to adjust. I don't want to get used to a life where you're not there. But that's another story; it can wait until a little later. You told me once to 'stop inflicting my opinions on the world'. Well, you're not in the world now, Sherlock, and so I'll 'inflict' them on you.

What I have to say now is just between us; it isn't for anybody else's ears. Well, I suppose that Mycroft's surveillance cameras - the ones that I _know_ are still in the flat, despite his assurances that they would be removed - might be able to zoom in close enough to see what I'm writing, but still, they're not ears. If I _have_ to write this down, then I'll oblige, but I see no reason to spill my heart out to the world on my blog. I don't want anybody else to see what I have to say to you, not even Molly or Mike, and especially not Harry, because it's between you and me. Sherlock and John. The way it was when all was well with the world. Well, _my_ world, the one involving London and jumpers and body parts in the fridge.

You, Sherlock, are a git. If I only had one word in which to sum you up, 'git' would be it. You use people for your own advantage. You're rude. You shoot holes in the wall at all hours 'because you're bored'. You're incredibly messy. Your mannerisms are extremely self-righteous. You have a brother that can kidnap me at will. Your enemies attack me in order to get to you. You ruin my relationships. You're manipulative. You use me in your experiments without my consent. You're unbelievably selfish and unappreciative of nearly everything that I do for you. You even leave decomposing human remains in a food preparation area. I don't think words can articulately describe how much of a 'git' you really are.

What annoys me the most, though, is how _I don't care about any of it._ _I_ _don't care_ that you use people, because I've come to realise that you don't do it for fun, despite what Anderson and Donovan believe. You do it for a reason, to help matters, even if nobody realises it at the time. _I don't care_ that you're rude, and have no concept of acceptable noise limits at various times of the day. _I don't care_ that you're messy and that it honestly is like living with a sulky child some days. _I_ _don't even care_ that I've grown use to being abducted by various parties, whether it be your brother or one of your psychopathic enemies, which is something that nobody should ever _have _to get used to. I would _gladly_ put up with the manipulation, the selfishness, the mood swings, and _everything else_ if it would only mean that you'd come back to me. You'd stop being dead, and so would I. Because that's how I feel right now, Sherlock. Dead. I don't feel anything, apart from the numbness and the cold.

I've said it before, but I'll say it again. Don't be dead, Sherlock. Would you do that just for me? Just stop it.

Stop this.

John.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock,

Nearly every single chapter of my life so far has started and finished with a trip to hospital. I was born in a hospital. My army career ended in a hospital. After being invalided home, I thought that was it. My life was effectively over. But then I happened to bump into Mike, who still worked at our old training hospital - yes, Bart's hospital. I visited the old place again as kind of a reunion tour, and it was there that I realised my mistake. My life wasn't over. It was only just beginning.

I'm sure you don't need me to remind _you_, of all people, that we met at that hospital, Sherlock. Or maybe I _do_ need to remind you. After all, maybe for you that memory was so inconsequential that you 'deleted' it from your hard drive. We met at Bart's hospital, and I left the old 'John Watson' behind, because he didn't exist any more. You fixed me, turning me into a better person at the same time, and I'm grateful to you for that. Truly, I am.

But then you went and left me, Sherlock. I always knew that you would, one way or the other. I'd wake up every morning and wonder if today was the day that you'd finally grown bored of me. After all, you are simply exceptional, whereas I am just ordinary. Ordinary, jumper-wearing John compared with the enigmatic, suit-wearing Sherlock. I was right when I said that the majority of chapters in my life finished with a trip to hospital. We were back at Bart's hospital again, about to be reunited amid the chaos that was Moriarty's web of deceit, when I saw you jump from the roof, fall as gracefully as ever, and land on the ground with a sickening thud. Your life was over, there was no denying that, but I don't think that it had crossed your mind that mine would end with it.

Look at me; I can't even refer to you in the proper tense! I'm talking to you as if you're still alive, but that's probably because, to me, you always will be. You haunt me. I see your face in my dreams, and every single moment I spend awake. I don't have nightmares any more; they ceased a while ago. All I do is dream. Dream about how things were, how they still could have been if Moriarty had been a fraction of the man that you are. That you _were_. No, that you _are_. He couldn't just settle for the two of you acknowledging each other as equals, and half-heartedly, almost flirtatiously or playfully pursuing each other for the rest of your lives in some kind of never-ending tango. He had to go and get _bored_.

I long for the nightmares to return. The nightmares of the fall, with me stood watching helplessly as you flail and fall onto the floor. The nightmares were kinder than the dreams. At least I knew that when I woke up from a nightmare, everything would be the same. Every time I wake up from a dream, I have a split second of euphoria, silently thanking anyone who will listen that I was lucky enough to bump into Mike the day that we consequently met, before realisation kicks in and I realise my mistake. And then it _hurts. _All over again. Or at least it would, if I could feel anything anymore. I wonder what kind of derisive comment you'd come up with about that if you were here now. It would probably be the old 'sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side' response that must have been drilled into you from any early age.

Sentiment is what makes us human, Sherlock. And you _were _human. I'm sorry for calling you a machine the day that you fell. Fell from grace, fell from the public's approval, fell from the recognition both you and your genius mind deserved. You have never been a machine. You are the most _human _human being that I have ever met.

Don't be dead, Sherlock. Please. Just stop it.

Stop this.

John.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock,

Mycroft came to visit today. You would have hated every minute of it. Despite what I believe to have been his best attempts to console me - I'm only presuming this to be the case because I managed to extract _another _sincere apology out of the aloof, incompetent jerk, with you and I both being aware that receiving just one apology from Mycroft is a rare occurrence in itself - I was still half tempted to pick up your violin and shoo your brother away with my feeble attempt to play it, and the consequent racket it would have produced. You've told me before that I have about as much musical talent as Anderson, which I'm presuming is - in fact - an insult, but despite this I decided against following through with my plan anyway because it just wouldn't have been the same as when you do it.

I'd assumed that your brother's visits would cease once the initial obligatory 'pretend-to-care-about-John-because-it's-the-social-norm' phase had passed. Obviously I was wrong. If you were here with me now, you'd probably tell me that I shouldn't be surprised at this, than I'm an ordinary idiot and so it's almost expected of me to be wrong practically all of the time. I'd give anything to hear you say it now, Sherlock, just one more time. I'm sorry for digressing, Sherlock, but it's an innate flaw of the average ordinary person, one which you'd undoubtedly comment on and protest against in your usual sardonic manner if you were here. When Mycroft told me the exact reasoning behind _why _he had come to visit - especially with him having continued to make the effort to come round to the flat in person, rather than having Anthea abduct me and deliver me to some undisclosed location to await the dramatic entrance of both your brother and his umbrella - I very nearly dropped that bloody skull of yours that I was holding with my already-trembling hand.

Your brother stunned me into silence - not the first time a Holmes brother has done this, I might add - by revealing that he had continued to pay both of our shares of the rent for 221B Baker Street since your fall, and would have no qualms at continuing to do so if I wished to return to reside there, assuring me that there would be no strings attached if I accepted his offer. Oh, perhaps I should have mentioned before that I don't live at the Baker Street flat any more, Sherlock, but then I suppose that you'd deduced that already from Mycroft offering to allow me to 'return'. You can't return somewhere if you never left in the first place. Mrs Hudson understood when I telephoned to tell her that it would hurt too much for me to return to our flat when there is no 'our' any more. There's no 'we', no 'us', no 'our'. It's just me. Alone. If I didn't know Mycroft any better, Sherlock, I'd say that he's feeling spectacularly guilty about what has happened, because your brother's offer was extremely generous, and therefore out of character for a man that is reluctant to give something without expecting anything in return. Mycroft and I are all too aware of what we have done to you, and so I think that your brother is trying to atone for his actions in a way that he deems appropriate. I wish I knew how to atone for what _I_ did, Sherlock, for what I caused and the events that I consequently allowed to happen to you. But I don't.

Needless to say, I turned your brother's offer down, Sherlock, just before I began writing to you tonight, in fact. I have already mentioned or alluded to some of my reasons for doing so, but there are others that I couldn't bring myself to vocalise but feel sure that Mycroft managed to deduce regardless. You Holmes brothers aren't exactly known for your accurate perceptions of sentimentality, but I think even Mycroft could see that returning to 221B could be 'detrimental to my recovery'. Or so my therapist theorised this afternoon, during the emergency appointment I made with her after my morning meeting with Mycroft. I needed to see her, Sherlock. Desperately. I didn't know what to do. I was sorely tempted to return to Baker Street, but I knew deep down that every time I heard a loud noise, I'd keep expecting you to burst through the door covered in blood, mud or some other kind of strange substance that had no obvious reason for being there. It would just be tortuous, repeatedly forcing myself to acknowledge that in reality, you're not coming back. You're not coming back to me. Amongst other things, my therapist also reasoned that returning may cause me to experience survivor's guilt, as well as other, more sinister thoughts. Well it's too late for that - I've been feeling a little like that for a while now already. Guilty, sickened, depressed, numb, broken. All because I'm very much aware that it's my fault you're not here. It's my fault that you're dead. I didn't get to you in time.

I should never have fallen for the 'Mrs-Hudson-is-dying' phone call. I should have known that it wasn't real, because if it had been then your reaction to the news would have been much more stormy, dangerous, concerned for and protective of her than it actually was. Your acting skills have certainly improved since our earlier cases, like when you tried and failed to convince Mrs Monkford that you were one of her husband's closest friends during our first encounter with Moriarty. You didn't fool her, you certainly didn't fool me, but you got me this time, Sherlock. At the time, I honestly believed your facade. You're not the 'machine' I accused you of being. It's just another example of where I was wrong. I should never have left you alone at Bart's, Sherlock. I stormed off in anger, and I'll never forgive myself for doing so. Whatever happened on that rooftop took place because I wasn't there to stop you going, or to help you if you stubbornly insisted on going. You were right - sentiment _is _a chemical defect found in the losing side. _I'm _on the losing side, Sherlock. I failed. I lost _you_.

I'm so sorry. Forgive me. I have no right to do this, but I'll beg you again, because I don't know what else to do any more. Please, just one more miracle, Sherlock, for me.

Don't be dead. Just stop it.

Stop this.

John.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: Apologies for the length of time it's taken me to update this story!**

Sherlock,

It's been a while since I wrote to you. I'm sorry about that, and I'm sorry that I seem to spend most of my time actually saying sorry for various things, but then I have a lot to apologise for, I suppose.

It's my birthday today, Sherlock. I'd completely forgotten about it until Mrs Hudson crept up behind me this morning with a birthday cake and started singing. It was a nice gesture, I suppose, and I'm sure that she'd hoped for a better response than me bursting into tears. Unfortunately, she didn't get one. She'd gone to such a lot of trouble to bake me a cake, and all I could think about was how it didn't seem right celebrating something as trivial as my birthday without you, especially without you playing a violin accompaniment to her singing. You played for me at Christmas and New Year. I'm sure I could've wrangled a song out of you for my birthday.

I can't believe I'd forgotten that I turned another year older today. Mind you, I'm sure that you would have forgotten too, both about my birthday and about your own. I seem to be losing my grasp on the concept of time, Sherlock, just like you did when you lost yourself in your mind palace. I couldn't even tell you how long it's been since I watched you jump from that damn rooftop. I just know that you've been gone for too long, and I've missed you.

You know, a pessimistic viewpoint of growing old could be 'another year older, another year closer to the grave'. For me, it's different. It's completely the opposite, because another year closer to the grave means that I take another step closer to you. Suddenly, growing old doesn't seem like such a bad thing, because I...

Oh, someone's coming. Several people, actually. I'd best log off. I'll be back later though. I still have things to say, things I should have already said to you.

Please, Sherlock, for me. It could be a belated birthday present if you like. Just don't be dead. Just stop it.

Stop this.

John.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock,

Again, let me apologise for the lengthy silence since I last wrote to you, and please ignore what I said at the end of my last letter, by the way. I was letting my emotions run away with me - you'd have been disappointed in me for that. The things that I wanted to say, the things I should have said a long time ago, will just have to wait for another day, I think.

Life has been pretty hectic for me recently, to be honest, Sherlock. Don't worry though, I'm not forgetting about you. I'm not moving on, not as such. I've tried that before - it didn't work, so now I'm stuck in this strange kind of limbo. Since you left, time has developed this irritating habit of dragging on. And on. And on. It's like experiencing everything in extreme slow motion, which is a stark contrast to the lightening pace at which things used to move when you were here. You were so vibrant, Sherlock. Your energy used to infect everybody. Even when you were sulking like a child, you were still charming, in your own way. If this tedious pace is how you experienced the world on a daily basis, then I'm beginning to understand why you turned to the cigarettes, and the other substances, which shall remain nameless. Don't get me wrong though, Sherlock. Even if I'm beginning to understand why you did it, it doesn't mean that I condone it.

Anyway, enough of that. You despised listening to me prattle on about that while you were here, never mind listening to me chastise you now that you're...not here. Do you want to know what I've been getting up to since I last wrote to you? It's okay, I know that you probably don't care one way or the other, but that's not going to stop me from telling you anyway. You'd probably think that it's "dull" or "not important" or "boring", but this is my life now, Sherlock. This is all that you left me with, and so you're going to listen to what you're making me endure.

I've got a new job. Not a locum job this time, though. I'm a consultant. Not in the medical sense, but in the sense that when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me...

Well, what do you think? Is that okay? I worried at first, you know, about whether you'd think that I was trying to replace you. It's a stupid worry, really - nobody could ever replace the gap you left behind. However, the criminal classes are still carrying on without you, and somebody needs to help Greg solve all those crimes. I mean, lets face it, with only Donovan and Anderson to help him, the poor man would never get anything solved, would he?

Greg is, by far, the most intelligent of them all, but he still lacks your insight into some of the more... shall we say unusual cases. So do I, really, but that didn't stop him from coming by my flat a few weeks ago, and asking me whether I'd consider helping out at crime scenes on a sort of freelance basis. He reasoned that I must have learned a trick or two with regards to deduction from observing your methods for all that time, and that in your absence, I'm the next best thing and they need me.

At first, I wasn't going to take him up on his offer. I thought about how painful it would be, being bombarded with memories of watching you deduce things from the tiniest detail, and then having to step up to the mark myself in an attempt to be as amazing as you. The next time I saw Greg, I opened my mouth to refuse his offer, but then I found myself accepting instead. The more I thought about it, the more it seemed fitting, almost. A tribute to you, as such, for me to continue with your work, and for the folks down at Scotland Yard to acknowledge that they do, in fact, need you, and that they always have. I hope that's how you'd see it, anyway, and I hope that I don't disappoint you, or let you down. After all, I'm only an ordinary idiot, aren't I?

I have to log off now, Sherlock. Mrs Hudson's just asked me to change a lightbulb in her kitchen. I'll write again soon though. I promise. And in the meantime, you know, please feel free to come and ask me what on earth I think I'm playing at. Ask me if I've lost my mind, thinking that I could ever be as intelligent as you. Insult me. Belittle me. I don't care, I wouldn't mind. Because you'd be here then. You wouldn't be...dead.

Please, Sherlock. For me. Just don't be dead. Just stop it. Come back and stop all of this.

John.


End file.
